by Tom Ryan
I don’t think the money would have stopped coming in if I hadn’t told people we had enough. If the medicine worked on Atticus’s infected eye we’d go forward with the cataract surgery and the follow-up visits he’d need, and we’d soon be going to Angell Animal Medical Center to start our battle with hyperthyroidism.
If we needed more money, I told them I’d let them know. But judging by the number of friends Atticus had made in his lifetime, something told me I wouldn’t need to.
19
Soul Work
I had a friend and mentor, Doug Cray, a retired newspaperman for the New York Times who had covered Kennedy and Johnson in the White House. Whenever turbulent times hit during my Undertoad years, he used to tell me, “Hold on to yourself, man.”
It was sound advice, but there were times when that was easier said than done.
The community was there for Atticus and me, but I was still lost. The post-winter letdown left me ill equipped to deal with Atticus’s health issues, and I was trying to catch up to a world that had spiraled out of control. I did my best to stay strong for Atticus, and I succeeded, but in every other aspect of my life I felt like I was trying to stand on only one leg in a raging storm.
I’d sit alone with Atticus, listening to the phone ringing and people leaving messages, but I couldn’t bear to talk with most of them.
I had all I could do just to hold on to myself.
However, there was one person I sought out. The reporter in me wanted answers. I called Paige Foster. We hadn’t spoken in two years, but I’d been keeping her abreast of our adventures by sending her photo updates of our winter quest. Occasionally I’d get a cheery e-mail back, but more often than not I heard nothing and figured she must hear from a lot of the people who’d bought puppies from her.
I wanted to know if Atticus’s parents ever had cataracts or thyroid problems.
Now, let me tell you, talking with Paige on the phone was always a treat. Consider her a cross between the late earthy, rabble-rousing Texas columnist Molly Ivins and a Gypsy mystic. In spite of the circumstances, it was comforting to hear her voice again after so long.
She told me that as far as she knew, none of her dogs had ever had eye or thyroid problems, and she asked what the doctors were doing. When I filled her in, she said, “Y’all have something going for you no one else has. Y’all have each other. Don’t ever forget it.”
In her strong, saucy twang she continued, “Down here in Louisiana, I never thought I bred a mountain dog, but looking at all those pictures of Atti sitting on the summits, I realize that little boy belongs in the mountains. You need to get him back up there where he can do his soul work. Because that’s exactly what he’s doing when he’s sitting there. Soul work.”
“But, Paige, he’s nearly completely blind. He can’t see. And they think he has cancer—”
She cut me off. “I don’t care what they say, you get him back up where he belongs. He needs those mountains, Tom.”
Had anyone else suggested this, I would have dismissed her quickly, but I always thought of Paige, to put it bluntly, as “intuitive,” and she seemed to understand things others didn’t. Most people would have considered Paige’s suggestion insane, and they would have considered me doubly so for following her advice, but deep down I knew she was right. Atticus needed the mountains more than ever. And that’s where we were going, two days before his eye surgery.
I trusted Paige, but more important I trusted Atticus. He had earned that trust. He’d been on hikes when he didn’t want to go any farther, so we turned back. It didn’t happen very often. As a matter of fact, it hardly happened at all. But it was enough for him to know he had a say, and for me to know he could express it. He’d always let me know what he needed. My job was to listen to what he was saying.
As soon as we arrived at the trailhead, I knew we’d made the right decision. He might have looked like an elderly dog climbing gingerly out of the car, and not the five-year-old who had bounced out of it just weeks before, but it was clear he wanted to be there. He walked around the edge of the parking lot, following his nose, then found the trail. And we were off.
It would be like no other hike we’d ever been on.
Although it was spring, the forest was still sleeping. Nothing was green, and the underbrush, in various shades of gray and brown, was hard for Atticus to see. This made it difficult for him to know where the trail went, and he continuously stumbled to the side or bumped into rocks and trees. I could feel his frustration grow each time he got tangled in the brush and had to work to free himself. On one occasion he misjudged a little ledge he would have climbed nimbly in the past and stood helplessly in front of it. I lifted him up.
Watching him struggle, there were several times I wanted him to stop and prayed he would, but he knew what he needed. From the very beginning, I had wanted Atticus to be whatever he wanted to be. To find his own way. And that’s what he was doing.
In that forest my heart broke time and again watching the little dog who used to trot along without a worry. I felt he’d been betrayed by the very powers that put him on earth. It didn’t seem fair that one so pure and true should be robbed of so much he loved when others took for granted what they had.
By the time we got through the forest and out onto the first ledge, he had collided with or tripped over so many rocks and sticks that I suggested we turn back. “Let’s go home, Atti,” I said hopefully, and started walking back the way we’d come. But he’d have none of it. Instead he sat and refused to move.
We were going on.
On the edge of that first ledge, we stood hundreds of feet above the shimmering Mad River. A hawk riding the wind called out to us. Atticus looked to where the noise had come from, but I’m sure he couldn’t see it.
I picked him up, and we stood feeling the wind on our faces just as we’d done hundreds of times before. But things were different, oh, so different.
“How does it feel to be home, Atti?”
He let out a sigh and laid his head on my chest. Who would think so simple a gesture could have such a profound effect on a grown man? At that moment, if I could have, I would have given him my eyes. Considering all he’d given me, it seemed only right.
I wanted to give him something, something valuable. So I made a promise. I made a promise to Atticus and to God that if we came through it all, then I would sell the paper and we would move up to the mountains where we were happiest.
I asked him again if he wanted to go home, but when I set him down, he made his way toward the higher ledges. I wasn’t surprised. We were on a mountain, and to Atticus that meant we went up until there was no more up—blindness be damned.
Neither Mount Welch nor Mount Dickey is a four-thousand-footer. They aren’t even close, but they offer profound above-tree-line views throughout most of the hike. The loop is 4.4 miles, and after the ledges it’s not all that taxing. I chose it for our hike because of the relative ease and because it was snow-free and would allow us to get above tree line. Besides, we’d been there before, plenty of times, and Atticus liked it. But this time around, it had to be frustrating for him, struggling to find his way on the open ledges, constantly having me correct him, or having to reach out with his nose to find my leg just to make sure I was still there. A couple of times, I boosted him up and he didn’t hesitate. He’d move forward—just not as fast as he used to move.
There were times he had to follow me, times I was certain he was going to turn back, times I thought I couldn’t go another step myself. And the more he struggled, the more I wanted to scream out for him to stop. Under my sunglasses, tears filled my eyes, and I cried until there were no more tears to shed. How could I not, seeing my friend striving with everything he had to get to a place he loved, doing something that used to be effortless but was now nearly impossible?
I believe he would have crawled up that mountain if he had to.
I have often stopped short when watching Atticus on the trails, seized by a moment of awe or wonder. There were times I’ve felt honored to be able to do that, as if I were watching something truly special and unique, for I have never felt as comfortable anywhere as he felt on a mountain. He was made for it as a bird is made to fly and a fish to swim. Even though so much had been robbed from him, he refused to think about anything else but getting to where he wanted to be. Or maybe it was where he needed to be.
When we finally reached the nub of rock on the summit of Dickey, he slowly pulled himself up to the very top. And then he sat.
He sat and cast his unseeing eyes to the wind and looked like a blind king sensing his kingdom below. From our vantage point, I could see several four-thousand-footers, and I imagined that somehow he knew they were there calling to him. Eventually I heard his sigh and saw the Little Buddha settle in.
And I’d been wrong—all my tears were not spent.
We sat there for more than an hour—I watched that little dog and he did his soul work. Paige had been right. There was something about that day that recharged Atticus, and me. He seemed more at peace after that and ready for the eye surgery. I was stronger and ready for the fight.
When the day of his cataract surgery came, my phone never stopped ringing. The answering machine filled up, and there were countless e-mails wanting to know how Atticus was doing. But I had nothing to tell them. I was waiting as helplessly as the rest of them.
When I did bring him home from the hospital that evening, there were cards and flowers and dog treats piled up outside the door to our apartment. A local restaurant dropped off Atticus’s favorite—their meatballs. A friend left steak tips.
The first thing I did when we got inside was take that plastic cone off his neck. They’d put it on to keep him from scratching the stitches in his eyes, but I wasn’t worried about that. He was always such a good dog. I simply told him, “Leave it be, Little Bug,” and instead I’d ever so gently rub over his closed eyelids, and that would bring relief.
I laid Atticus across my lap and sent out a group e-mail telling everyone that the cataract surgery appeared to be successful, but we would have to wait to be certain. Susan Hayward said it could be months before we knew if his vision was going to be okay. She was still particularly concerned about his right eye.
He was heavily sedated, but it was beautiful out, and I wanted him to feel the breeze. I carried him downstairs, laid him on a thick blanket in the bicycle basket, and rode into the cool night.
When we pedaled up State Street and past Agave, the Mexican restaurant, I remembered a bike ride from the past. A woman sitting at one of Agave’s outside tables saw Atticus in his basket atop the handlebars, noble and relaxed. She fell so utterly in love with him she asked me for his breeder’s name. Soon after, she contacted Paige and bought a little male that looked similar to him. She called him Atticus.
During our most recent conversation I had asked Paige how “the other” Atticus was doing.
“Oh, that’s right, you haven’t heard.”
I thought she was going to tell me that something bad had happened to the little guy, and I braced myself.
“There are now five Attici.”
As Paige told it, various people who had met Atticus through the years had sought her out, gotten a dog that looked like him, and named it Atticus.
“You know, Tom, they saw what you and the little boy have together and they wanted the same thing. They figured they’d get a dog that looked like him and gave him the same name and then they’d have what you guys have. They’re all good dogs with good owners, but none of them share what you two do.
“I’ve always prided myself on matching up my babies with the right people, but I’ve never seen anything like the two of you.”
We pedaled past Agave, through the night, along the cozy and shadowy tree-lined streets of the South End; by the old clam shack on Joppa Flats; along the waterfront and the boardwalk where the moon reflected on the Merrimack River; up Green Street by the police station and city hall; around Brown Square and the statue of William Lloyd Garrison, where I sat with Max the last night we were together; up to High Street and by the houses once belonging to sea captains.
I imagine that Atticus must have had the strangest dreams of flying, or maybe he thought he was on top of a mountain and was feeling the wind upon his face.
When I called Paige soon after and told her about the bicycle ride, she said she thought it was the perfect thing to do for a little dog with a big spirit.
Paige saved me during those troubling days. Atticus and I had many friends who would have done nearly anything for us, but I shared something different with Paige. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. Everyone else I knew had seen Atticus and me together, and while she never had, there was no question in my mind she knew us better than anyone did. We chatted often when we were going through the cataract and thyroid problems, and when we did, we talked as we had during Atticus’s first year. Conversations lasted for hours. She asked me numerous questions about the mountains, my paper, Newburyport, our friends, and, of course, Atticus. But when I asked her questions, she gently deflected them. She was more interested in us, she told me.
I didn’t know much about Paige. I knew she lived on a farm and raised puppies. I knew she was married, although she didn’t talk about her husband all that much. And the reporter in me, always with my radar up, had the impression that there were things Paige wasn’t telling me. It’s not that it mattered, for I cherished our conversations anyway.
One day she asked, “Tell me, Tom, how does Atticus respond when you have a lady friend in your life?”
I admitted there hadn’t been one in a couple of years. When he was young, I’d dated a couple of women, but the relationships never lasted very long, and I confessed that once we’d started going to the White Mountains, I almost didn’t care about dating anymore. I was content.
“Don’t get me wrong, Paige, I’d love to find the right person. I’m just not actively looking for her. Besides, it’s going to take someone special to add more to what he and I already share.”
There was a pause on her end of the phone, and then she said, “I’m sure Atticus will let you know when the right one comes along. Until then, love is love, Tom. God tells us we are supposed to have love in our life. He doesn’t say it has to be between a man and a woman. Seems to me Atticus gave you the family you always wanted.”
As always, Paige was right. It was all the more reason I worried about losing Atticus.
20
Bread Crumbs
Perhaps it was because Atticus had turned into the family I’d always wanted that even after all those years I never gave up hope that I could be close to my father, my brothers, and my sisters. I saw what it was like to have that special bond, and it made me believe I could have it with them one day.
I think the biggest tragedy of my father’s life was that he never believed he was loved. He got glimpses of it now and again, but for the most part he couldn’t see it and didn’t believe it.
One glimpse came following a car accident that took place in May 2003. He had a diabetic seizure while driving and crashed into a telephone pole and a stone wall. He broke most of his ribs and was lucky to live. It would be a tough accident to go through for any man, never mind one a month shy of his eighty-third birthday.
In the months that followed, my brothers David and Eddie, the two of his nine children who still lived in Medway, checked in on him daily and on most days twice. I helped out, but being eighty miles away with a business to run, I couldn’t be there as much. I drove down two or three times a week and spelled them whenever I could. My other brothers and sisters also helped out, but less often.
During my father’s recovery, I arrived one day to find him sleeping. On the kitchen table was his ever-present yellow legal pad filled with his scrawl. He’d writt
en that when the accident had occurred, he was angry with God for not taking his life. He couldn’t figure out why he’d been left to live in such pain.
I could understand that. There was not much left to live for. His body was like an old car falling apart piece by piece. Heart, lungs, eyes, ears, mouth, diabetes, back—you name it, he had a problem with it.
But then he wrote that he believed God had spared his life so he could see how some of his sons had altered their lives to take care of him. He was humbled.
He didn’t use the word “love”; no one in our family ever used it. But it was clear he felt loved.
My father never realized that he taught us many things in life, and it was only when he was heavy-handed or acting the part of the bully that we shut him out, just as he had shut us out. What he didn’t see was that I learned from him in other ways. After I got away from him, I adopted many of the things he loved: writing, reading, classical music, politics, an appreciation of some of the greatest minds in history—men such as Thoreau and Emerson and their peers—and, of course, the White Mountains.
Without knowing it, he’d dropped these bread crumbs along the way, and I’d picked them up. When Atticus was recovering from his cataract surgery, I picked up yet another.
Multiple sclerosis drove my mother to a wheelchair, but my father was intent on having her experience as much of life as possible, and he refused to accept the limitations dictating where she could go. He brought her everywhere, which wasn’t the norm back in the sixties. All of his children noticed that, and we carried it with us forever.
I wanted Atticus to understand the same thing: No matter what happened with his eyes or his thyroid, we were going to do our best to ignore limitations. That’s why we wasted no time in getting back to living the life we’d grown used to. Only ten days after surgery, Atticus and I returned to the mountains.
